


Like rum on the fire

by mollykaths



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Childhood Trauma, Did i forget to mention, F/M, It's Jason Dean he's a fucked up dude with lots of issues, JD isn't evil he's just a Capricorn, Jd gets pegged then cries, Past Child Abuse, Pegging, References to physical abuse, THIS IS DEPRESSING, They're in their early twenties and its the 90s, This takes place 6 years later, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and is a little pretentious (what noooo waaaay), in that version its implied that JD's dad is physically abusive, inspired by the west end heathers musical, oh yeah this a pegging fic, pls dont read if you are uncomfortable with characters trying to justify their abuse, references to the musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28188729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollykaths/pseuds/mollykaths
Summary: She looks at you like she thinks you’re good. Like she thinks you’re beautiful. And not the kind of beautiful that you take for granted, the kind of beautiful that means nothing. Is this how Lucifer felt? Revered for his beauty but understood by so few. You don’t believe in god, you don’t believe in “good” or bad but Veronica makes you think you could, maybe.
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	Like rum on the fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chxrryb0mb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chxrryb0mb/gifts).



> Uhhhh guys JD isn't doing so good I think he might need therapy. This leans more towards musical JD characterization. I know he cries in Our Love is God and I have not been able to leave that alone. Jamie Muscato is a talented boy and the way he flinches whenever Veronica touches him BROKE MY HEART AND MADE ME WANT TO FUCKING DIE so that's where this inspo came from.
> 
> It's unclear if JD is still murdering people 6 years later or just beating people up if they inconvenience him. I'll let you decide. Either way, it's not great, lol!
> 
> Thank you for chxrryb0mb for editing this fic.

You’re special, you’ve known this for a while now. The pain you’ve shouldered hasn’t made you weak. It’s given you _clarity_. You can see what makes people tick, push them until they snap, watch it all come bubbling up until you get that rush of adrenaline— the kind you got when you killed for the first time. Felt better than anything you had felt before in your entire goddamn life. Felt better than fucking. Felt better than the few times you fought back when your dad beat you and you, thought, _fuck it—_ nearly kicked his teeth in while two of you struggled on the floor. The old man battered your ribs for pulling that shit, making it hard to breathe for _weeks_ but god it had felt so satisfying.

You know this because you’ve lived it.

You’re twenty-three now. Taller, broader, though not particularly strapping, not as much as you’d like to be. Not that it’d do you any good to throw around your weight like some kind of caveman, like the fucking pricks you saw on New Years Eve; the ones that hollered obscenities at your girlfriend. Trust-fund douchebags stomping around the joint like they owned the place.

You recall that incident where you lost your shit, admittedly: happened at a bar in Williamsburg, New York City, start of ’95. Some neanderthal spilled beer all over Veronica’s cashmere sweater, the one she had saved up for. Blue cashmere. Such a pretty color, really brings out the gold in her eyes. She was devastated so naturally, you followed the man home, slammed the door on his fingers, and beat him unconscious. 

Whatever it is you possess (and it’s got to be _something_ because everyone’s got _something,_ whether or not it’s shit is irrelevant) it can’t be pretty. Whenever you meet Veronica’s gaze, it’s with too much of that firebrand intensity that you think will scare her away but she always stays. Veronica laughs at your dark humor, pushes your hair out of your eyes when you ramble, lets it slide when you joke about how fun it’d be to off her stuffy coworkers—not a terrible idea, by the way.

Yes, it’s corny and you’d never say this out aloud: you’re her fallen angel, her Lucifer, once a heavenly, beautiful being striving for greatness, only to be cast down, by a _father_. The resemblance is uncanny. Mom took you to church. She believed in God. You don’t, but you still remember the sermons.

_How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations._

So you’re not a violent person. Not really, a bit broken, sure. You’d fuck anyone up if they’d try to hurt Veronica but isn’t that what love is about? Protecting the ones you love? That’s different. 

  
  


You’re twenty-three now, not a pretentious seventeen year old, thank god, but still smarter than most people to know that the world doesn’t owe you _shit_. And you give the world back what you’re pretty sure it wants: this beautiful, tall, sultry thing with a chip on its shoulder.

It’s stupid and insincere but your looks are just a tool to get you what you want— jobs, mostly. Writing gigs. Because people eat that shit up.

  
  


Just light your cigarette, bat your lashes, duck your head. Act dumb, look pretty, seem sad. Get a paycheck. Rinse, repeat.

_No, you never went to college. Aw, shucks, you wish you had the chance but your old man, he drank away your college tuition fund. Writing’s all you’ve got, even if there’s no degree to show for it._

Look away, pensive, pouty. Flick the cigarette, crush it with your boot. Look up. Be sure to do it all heavy-lidded, like it keeps you up at night or something. Let a piece of hair fall over your eyes, that always seems to work. _Panty-soaker_ , Veronica calls it.

_It was tough. Your old man, he had a temper. Used to hit you. Broke your ribs one time. A school counselor tried to intervene but your pops, he just packed up one night and the two of you booked it across the country._

Would it have made a difference, you wonder? If you could set aside your nihilism for a beat, look at it, objectively speaking, could you have tried to save a bit of yourself if someone had done something about your garbage home life—no.

_No, no, stupid. Don’t be stupid, it’s clarity, it’s real, you’re real. This made you real. Pain made you real._ Choosing who lives or dies is a privilege and only someone as fucked up as yourself can see that. Would’ve been nice if mom could’ve stuck around a bit longer, though.

Then again, maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about your mom while you’ve got your girlfriend sitting on your face. That one’s on you. The heating unit is busted _(of course it is)_ and it’s the middle of winter. At some point, you had asked Veronica if you’d both be better off in a nicer neighborhood.

_"And move into some apartment complex filled with WASPs? ” Veronica had retorted, eyebrows raised. “I think I’ll take my chances here in the Bronx, thank you very much.”_

  
  


The plan way to just fuck all night long to keep warm and after at least half an hour of your girlfriend riding your face, she had finally come with a loud wail. When you pull away from between her legs, there’s a long piece of slick aftermath clinging to your lips. Veronica groans at the sight of you. You’ve got a good mouth. You know what it can do, what it looks like once it’s red and bitten, shiny and covered in come. 

The bedroom is her congregation and you’re just a lowly parishioner, your sole purpose to serve at her altar and have sin coaxed from your lips.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” She whines, nudging your thighs apart with her knee. “It’s not fair.”

Straddling your thighs with her own, Veronica grabs the base of your cock, ready to sink down. She’s wet enough that she can take you and it’d be an easy, effortless slide.

“Wait,” You say, holding her hips in place, stopping her.

“ _Wait_?”

“Not yet. I need—“ 

Your tongue darts out between your lips.

“You need what?” Veronica asks, leaning in close so her breasts brush against your chest, her long hair tickling your nose.

“Remember that time you used a strap-on?” You begin but before you can finish, she’s already pulled herself away from your erect cock, bounced off the bed with one eager push, and rushed to the drawers to grab her toys and lube.

God, you love her so fucking much. When Veronica returns with the strap-on in her hand and a bottle of lube in the other, you think proposing to her on the spot wouldn’t be the worst idea you’ve had in your shitty adult life.

  
  


“Knew I could count on you, kid.”

“Be quiet,” Veronica hushes.

  
  


You can’t be.

Last time Veronica fucked you with the strap-on, she had you on all fours. It’s _unbelievable_ how someone so petite could fuck with such wild magnitude but that’s Veronica Sawyer: never does anything half-assed. You had buried your face in the pillow to stop yourself from screaming.

Veronica kisses you hard on the mouth. A simple act, on her part but she doesn’t know that you’re drinking from her chalice. Nimble, deft fingers work you open, nice and slow. Too slow. Veronica knows what she’s doing, knows what it takes to make you desperate. 

“Fuck you,” You finally choke out. “Are you going to make me feel it, or what?”

Suddenly, Veronica crooks her fingers and with her free hand, smacks you _hard_ on the ass. You turn around to flash her a look that’s positively _feral_ and demand _,“_ Again _.”_

To anyone else, you’d seem off (boy, isn’t that the understatement of the century)

You’d seem so _off_ , unraveled and unhinged but not all at once; a cruel, crooked smile that’s gone as soon as it's there. Once she’s buried herself completely, she grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. Letting go, she pats your hair back into place, always thinking she’s pushed too far. Perfect, manicured nails scratch your scalp. 

All Veronica wants is to take care of you but you don’t _want_ to be taken care of, you want to be crushed, grounded into the dirt. Made to feel worthless. Lucifer was torn apart, too, and he never quite recovered from the fall; lost his wings, like you lost yours. Your fall from heaven was a bit different though, less mythical. You were a kid, your father beat you hard enough to draw blood and this time, mom wasn’t there to kiss it better. Mom was dead and you had no one so you patched yourself up with whatever you could find in the first aid backpack that your parents had left in the kitchen.

It’s still not enough and Veronica will never quite understand that you can take so much _more_. Sure, the beatings hurt at first, but soon you realized just how much you could take and how much stronger it had made you. You got back up every time you got knocked down. Not too many people could do the same.

A wordless conversation between the two of you transpires: you push back into the feeling of the toy fucking you open, a silent “more,” and “ _make me forget."_

And she doesn’t ask, “ _Make you forget what?”_

Instead, she just fucks you as hard as she can with her small body, which to her credit, is tougher than it looks. Pilates, you think, as she pistons her hips, fingers gripping the meat of your thighs. Definitely pilates. She’s got a powerful core.

She hits your prostate from a particularly sensitive angle and it knocks the air from your lungs in one swift movement. Your knees buckle and you shift so your stomach lays flat against the mattress. 

“Not so smug now, hm?” Veronica inquires.

  
  


The whimper that you make this time is bitten-back, trapped between your teeth, before you shoot back, “That all you got?”— breathy and arrogant, but with a little of the brass starting to wear off. 

  
  


“Haven’t even gotten started, _sugar_ ,” Veronica singsongs into your ear before giving it a harsh bite. Not quite hard enough to draw blood but it certainly makes you cock twitch in interest. When you reach to give your dick a good tug, Veronica bats it away, says “No. You’ll take what I give you.”

And god.

_God_.

Veronica stills, listening for a whine and she gets one from you without fail. A pathetic one. You sound _pathetic_ , needy, desperate, like you’ll die if she stops. She’s your salvation, after all. These sounds are not the cries of a grown man fucking his girlfriend, rather, they’re the desperate wails of a grown man getting his _ass pounded_ by said girlfriend. Not that anyone eavesdropping could tell— aside from her soft whispers and praises, Veronica is mostly quiet, focused. 

To anyone listening who didn’t know any better, _anyone_ could be fucking you like you’re some dirty little bitch—god— that shouldn’t make you harder but it does. Your cock pulses angrily in response, red-hot.

Another smack on the tender cheek of your ass, this one loud and probably going to leave a mark. One step closer to breaking, you think, and when you do finally speak— which feels impossible to do because getting fucked by Veronica Sawyer is a visceral experience that’s like pulling yourself up from underwater, all blurry and surreal— your voice cracks around each syllable. 

“Veronica, fuck— _I can’t_ —-come on, p-please—I need—“ 

You sound like you’re about to cry. You think you might. 

“I’m gonna c-come— _mm_ — all over the sheets,” You almost sob, not sure why that’s suddenly a priority, how anything other than coming right now could be a priority. Always quick on her feet, Veronica maneuvers you so you’re lying on your back. 

It’s not that you don’t know how you look. Obviously, you’re attractive. Not a matter of being vain or “confident,” there’s just a standard for beauty that you’ve met. Genetics. Good bone structure. It’s not deep. It’s nothing. But the way Veronica looks at you when she’s inside you, cradling your face with her free hand….

It’s something. She looks at you like she thinks you’re good. Like she thinks you’re _beautiful_. And not the kind of beautiful that you take for granted, the kind of beautiful that means nothing. 

Is this how Lucifer felt? Revered for his beauty but understood by so few. You don’t believe in god, you don’t believe in “good” or bad but Veronica makes you think you could, maybe.

With the barest touch to your cock, Veronica grips you tight, hitting your prostate one last time and milking you for all your worth. Biting your lip, trying to tamp down a scream— because as euphoric as this feels, you’re beginning to worry that your neighbors think your soul is being exorcised or something— you watch yourself come all over Veronica’s hand, the sound wet and harsh and sloppy.

  
  


By the time she returns to wipe the come off your belly and throw away the mess, you’ve rolled over, curled up on your side. Not one of your prouder moments but tears begin to well up in your eyes, your lip quivering. 

  
  


“Jason?”

  
  


When you don’t reply, Veronica tries again. She places a hand on your shoulder.

“Oh my god, are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, you were fucking perfect. Always perfect.”

  
  


“Then what’s wrong?”

  
  


You fight the urge to hunch over, to make yourself small at the hurt note in Veronica’s voice.

  
  


“You make me feel things. Sometimes, everything at once. Kind of overwhelming.”

  
  


You don’t turn to face her, not yet, but your hand finds hers; an invitation that draws her close. The feeling of her warmth when she hugs you from behind is comforting but you’re still sniffling, like some stupid kid. 

  
  


“You’re shaking,” Veronica whispers, kissing your neck. 

  
  


“Well, you fucked me real good.”

  
  


Veronica pulls the blankets over your bodies.

“I wish….” Veronica starts but trails off, like she wants to choose her words carefully. “I wish things had been different for you.”

“I know.”

  
  


Silence.

  
  


A familiar and anxious edge lurks in your mind: urgent and innate, something far beyond impartial thought. It’s the kind of silence that’s mortifying, like when mom and dad didn’t speak to one another for days and you had to keep it together somehow, this stupid kid who didn’t know jack about the world, hanging on for dear life; long before that moment you realized you had fallen and lost your wings.

  
  


Luckily, Veronica breaks that silence, because she’s Veronica: this is real life and not a nightmare from the past. You remember how to breathe again.

“I wish your dad were good,” Veronica sighs.

“He made me,” You explain. “Everyone’s got something, you know. It sucked but we all have to get tough somehow.”

“ _Jason_ ,” Veronica protests, wounded. “You were just a kid. You didn’t need to be tough, you just needed to be loved.”

  
  


And to that, you say nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Musical JD: The pain gives me clarity :)
> 
> NO it doesn't, you stinky rat bastard boy, it just gave you Trauma. I think about that line a lot, though.


End file.
